Twenty Seconds
by Feral Phoenix
Summary: These were the days they would come to miss the most. — MilanorKylier, GulcasaNessiah, Yggdra. Spoilers.


Twenty Seconds

DISCLAIMER: Yggdra Union and its characters © Sting. This story is mine.

_(antebellum innocence _– now my feet won't touch the ground)

Somewhere in the south of Orlando, a thief is making his way through the long grass, half running and half making an ungainly dance. He has no worries—his men are guarding the fort, faithful as hunting dogs; here he can run hand in hand with the dark-skinned girl dearer to him than life itself without a single care but for her.

She's mostly tugging him along—she has longer, stronger legs—but he doesn't mind; it gives him a lovely view of them, and he could look at her forever.

Quite suddenly, she comes to a stop, and gives him a sharp pull so that they tumble over and over in the soft field-sized cushion of grass. They come to a stop with her sprawled on her back and him crouched over her, and she curls both hands into his hair and looks up at him with laughing eyes.

Her flyaway hair is just a few shades darker than the clover, her clothes and eyes and skin brilliant and beautiful. He likes the combination of colors between them—peach to tan, silver to green, teal to yellow, blue to amber—and he thinks this as he leans down to align their bodies more perfectly.

No one is here to see them if they get carried away, after all. It is a perfect day.

- - -

Somewhere in a northern castle, a chill wind has begun to blow outside.

The young man at the desk brushes his long hair back and groans. The castle is warm, but he can tell that the air has changed—it makes the old whip wheals and scars across his back start to ache. They are quite useful in predicting the weather, but at the same time they are a hassle he cannot truly afford.

He is tired. It is the middle of the afternoon, and he is tired; his eyes hurt from squinting at fine print on legal documents, his head hurts from ever-so-polite debates with the courts on how he should and shouldn't do things, and his legs are growing cramped from all the time he's spent sitting today. He needs to get up and stretch them, but likely the soldiers will be doing drills on the practice grounds and he'll have no real place to exercise.

…But. He looks around the room—this well-furnished yet cozy office—draped in scarlet wall hangings and patterned rugs, with fine things strewn everywhere and the smallest fire burning in the hearth. He need no longer fear for his own safety or wonder if he'll be able to find unspoiled food, or curse the gods at whose whim everything was stolen from him because he was born during the reign of the wrong sovereign.

No, here he is—in his rightful place, even if he hasn't fully adjusted to that yet. He has work to do, but it's fulfilling and necessary and it won't last forever. His sisters will bring him treats and sympathize, and the old general who is like a father to him will pat his head in pride when he's finished. He has his generals and commanders—subordinates but friends—who he'll drink with afterwards, and tonight he'll have a warm bed with a lover waiting for him there.

He smiles, and shakes his head at his own folly. It may be difficult, but he's much happier where he is now than where he was a few months ago.

He dips his pen in the inkwell, and continues to write.

- - -

Somewhere in a grand bedroom with a vaulted ceiling, a young noblewoman lies across her bed looking dreamily up at its canopy.

She is in her new underclothes—a silk corset instead of a canvas one, and new black garters instead of hose. She has left the last laces of the corset undone to give herself room to breathe, and she plays with the thin buckles of the garters almost constantly; the governesses and attendants would scold, but they are not here, so she can do as she pleases.

It feels daringly grown-up to don such garments, and she wonders dreamily if she's gotten any closer to becoming a grand lady. It will be good practice if she must become queen ten or twenty or thirty years into the future; she needs to develop a better sense of majesty if her mama and papa decide to hand her the throne or complete their full lives.

If she is a grand lady, she must needs find a grand lord to match her, of course. Perhaps one of the knights like Durant, perhaps one of the young nobles, perhaps even the head of the Branthèse house—though she has not seen him in almost three years now. She'll smile at him—this charming, gentle, as-yet-faceless man—and surreptitiously sneak him favors, and he will present her roses with great ceremony, and they will exchange letters and together they will ask for her mama and papa's permission to marry. If he is a good man, not even her papa will be able to refuse.

She picks up a lacy pillow and hugs it to her chest, rolling over and crossing her feet at the ankles like a good lady should. The day is warm and soft like the light filtering through her shifting curtains, and she is content to simply dream.

- - -

Somewhere in the Emperor's personal rooms, a fallen angel sits on the side of the bed, adding fresh notes to a diagram of a spell, his mind idle—half on the work in front of him, half on worries barely formed and distant yet.

He hopes for the undefined as much as he fears it—because it is _undefined,_ it is the future, and there are still points in the plan where anything can happen. There are things that are happening to _him, _to his heart and mind, that he never accounted for, and although he will not admit it even to himself, it frightens him deeply. That he welcomes some of those happenings—more deeply still.

Can he do this? _Should_ he do this? Can he wait, should he wait? Can he pass this perfect opportunity aside because of simple serendipity?

The questions haunt the edges of his mind when he's alone, though he tries not to pay them too much mind. The stage is set; everything will soon be ready for him to take back what is his.

The door to the room opens, and he sets his book on the bedside table—he is not fully turned around when strong arms encircle him, cradling his body as warm lips press against his hair.

He smiles; all that was wary in him softens. Even with anxiety looming on the horizon—for now, in this moment, he is at peace. He would be a fool not to enjoy what happiness he can, for now.


End file.
